I feel like it’s exhausting to be me.  Having to think about everything, rethink, think again.  What’s going on?  I can’t get anywhere.  Depression check.  Anxiety check.  Did I exercise enough?  Am I eating right?  Did I get enough sleep?  Yes?  Then why am I still tired?  Why do I still feel crappy even though I am doing everything right?  (socializing…being creative…doing everything I need to do at work…setting and achieving goals…eating enough fruits and vegetables…)

People I deal with at work tell me how hard it is to live with a chronic illness.  And, yes, it is.  But I think, gee, if only I had a little magic monitor that I could check my depression/anxiety/repetitive negative thinking with four times a day like a blood sugar level and give myself an appropriate injection of happiness, of satisfaction, of whatever it is that other people have that I don’t have.  Just like a diabetic pancreas that doesn’t make insulin, my brain is just not…making…happy.


I will never forget that one scene from ER where Dr Green lays dying, his daughter at his bedside, as he gives her his final advice.  “Be generous,” he gasps.  I love that scene.  Sometimes, when I am feeling stingy, Dr Green’s voice replays in my head, admonishing me.


It reminds me of a Bible passage we studied in church a few weeks ago.  The passage (Second Corinthians 8:1-6) was thus:


1And now, brothers, we want you to know about the grace that God has given the Macedonian churches. 2Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity. 3For I testify that they gave as much as they were able, and even beyond their ability. Entirely on their own, 4they urgently pleaded with us for the privilege of sharing in this service to the saints. 5And they did not do as we expected, but they gave themselves first to the Lord and then to us in keeping with God’s will. 6So we urged Titus, since he had earlier made a beginning, to bring also to completion this act of grace on your part. 7But just as you excel in everything—in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in complete earnestness and in your love for us—see that you also excel in this grace of giving.”


It’s a great passage.   “See that you also excel in this grace of giving,” writes the Apostle Paul.  In other words, “be generous.”

Last night Jack and I were out for a late-night walk.  It was peaceful, walking in the park, with the dragon flying around and whatnot; the air still, warm, quiet.


As we were on our way home we heard several shots from a semiautomatic weapon and then a car alarm.  We looked at each other.  The sounds had clearly come from the cemetery.  Jack said that was very efficient.  Neither of us had our phones.


I raced home and called the police within five minutes of hearing the shots, trying to explain to an officer where I had heard them.  The cemetery has a new name.  He couldn’t find either name on whatever map he was looking at, asking a couple silly questions.  I explained exactly where. 


All our windows were open.  I heard one siren go toward that area when I was barely off the phone.


A couple minutes later, another siren. 


That’s all I got.

My friend pulled a hamstring and I called her up so she could tell me aaaallll about it.  She said, “It feels better when I rub my butt, but I can’t do that at work.” 


I said, “I rub my butt at work.”  You know, if it hurts or something.  (Seems logical to me, right?)  Maybe I shouldn’t do that.  Nobody ever says anything about it, but people are funny creatures.  Nobody will ever tell me if my deodorant isn’t working (or if I forgot to put it on), even if I ask.  Maybe I just need a better internal editor.


Or a backspace button.

I am finally out of “the dark place” (taps cranium) this time. I have several names for it. “The hole.” “Sylvia Plath’s writing club.” And so on.

A lot of people must have been praying for me. So, thanks everybody.

I will continue to pray for anyone currently in the dark place.

Yesterday I took zero of that shit and it was ok!  Only one valium, during the day.  Then I celebrated by having a delicious, cold, locally-brewed beer out on the town with Jack.


Man, I don’t know how Eminem ever took twenty Vicodin a day.  How did he ever take a crap?  SRSLY.

I wrote earlier about Eminem and how he overcame his addiction to Vicodin.  When I initially torqued my spine and pelvis a month ago, I refused narcs, remembering how hard it was to wean off the stuff.  Then I got the script from my PCP, realizing that I really did need it.  Then I was obstinate about refilling it, and went through a difficult, painful weekend…got the refill…and watching the number of white oblong magic pills decrease (slowly, with wise, judicious use)  is giving me a weird feeling.  I don’t watch the clock anymore- but I still need them in the morning to get moving, and before PT (my PT is awesome.  Although I shocked her today by asking if it was ok to resume sex again.  Did I mention I torqued my pelvis?)   She did say that continuing to play the bass will be no problem, but she didn’t directly answer the sex question.  Hmmm.  (Don’t worry about Jack.  I take good care of my man.  I am a creative girl.)


So I am hoping this is the last bottle.  But man, if I could be on valium forever, now that would be something.  What if I just get a valium tat?  It will always be on my body then.  Would that, like, work?  What if the ink were made of slow-release valium?  Hmmm… now there is a thought.  That’s an even better idea than white-ink tattoos for black people.

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